Motörheart
by Argeon
Summary: A story of how a team falls when it surrender to madness. Please review!


_"Sweet Jesus, war does terrible things to men."_

The Demoman's teeth shined from across the table, like the stars outside the crumby wooden shed. An old cigar on the other side turned gruesomely red in the darkness of the small room as the Soldier inhaled deeply, trying to appear unbothered by the certain unease in the air. Four cards on the table, four cards in their hands, and one more to go. One measly card could decide the fate of all the other eight out. A droplet of sweat rolled down the ragged skin of the soldier and fell red on his nine of hearts. It then rolled down to the deathly black 7 of spades before being rubbed off with a coarse skin of his thumb. A stench of smoke and vomit violated their noses mercilessly, polluting their lungs and making their chests burn. However, the wild cocktail of fear and tension made them ignore the terrible scent and focus on the pitiful game of poker.

The last card was about to be revealed. Beads of ashy nervousness formed on the Demoman's head, glowing bright red on his dark skin whenever the soldier inhaled. The Demoman reached for the stack of semi-crumpled cards and flipped one on to the crumbling wooden table, beside the other four. The ace of spades.

They looked into each other's eyes, expressing no emotion like machines. Still staring at each other, they tossed their cards on the table, blandly. A quiet, but fierceful competition was going between the two heavily-intoxicated beasts. Evaluating what they had, they realized that the Demoman had a better hand than the Soldier.

However, all nine cards just as pointless as the nine mercenaries. They were just like cards in a deck. Could be used for fun, could be toyed with, could be burnt.

The Soldier puffed out the thick smoke and stared at the Demoman, grinning cheerfully due to his victory. He pulled his cigar out and looked down for a second, deciding what to do. He thought it half-way through and began. He stood up and walked to the money on the table. The Demoman reached out and guarded by grasping the money in a hug, staring at him with flaming eyes. The Soldier squeezed a phony smile and quickly pressed his cigar into the Demoman's cheek. He shrieked and threw his hand at the Soldier, knocking him backwards a couple of steps.

"Oi, laddie, wa do you think yer doin'?

The Soldier crashed into the Demoman again, screaming insults at him a throwing punches here and there.

"You cheatin' son of a bitch! I know you cheated, I know it! You won five times in a row, you stealin' nigger."

Upon hearing those words, the Demoman's single eyes exploded into an inferno of rage. He kicked the Soldier square in the chest, launching him on to his back stunned and threw the chair he was just sitting on several seconds ago at the man. It barely got him by his chest before it smacked against the floor, shattering into a sticks. With a scream of fury, the Demoman picked up a sizable chip and stabbed at the Soldier, pounding him and destroying him with mighty blows of his. In a matter of seconds, the Soldier recomposed himself and swung his leg at the Demoman's calves. As there legs connected, both found themselves to be on the floor, pounding the living out of each other.

"Boys, cut it out!" a Texan voice barked for behind. The fighting stopped and the two men looked around to see the Engineer, staring at the with his goggles on and wrench in hand.

"The robots are comin' from the Valley of Steel to try to destroy the decoy. I suggest if ya bastards want to live to see another night pass, you'd better stop fightin' and get the hell to work."

The Engineer had lost his easy-going, country boy attitude a long time ago. After many months of murder and losses, his soul weathered down to his primal, brutish behavior. He, along with most of the others was breaking bad and losing his personality to become better on the field. He walked towards the flipped table and picked up a half-empty bottle of rum. Then, he scrunched up his face into a look of disgust and turned around, walking away from the room down the gloomy corridor. Footsteps got quieter and quieter until they were heard no more. The Demoman pushed his teammate of and stood up. He looked around for his chair, which was no where to be seen after the soldier smashed it on him. A druken roar thundered from the Demoman, surprising the Soldier very much that he shifted backwards, but then he collapsed on to the floor, snoring like a pig. The Soldier crawled up against the wall and pushed himself up. He had accidentally rolled on to a sharp stick of wood while fighting on the ground. The chip wasn't fatal, but it was sizable enough to cause difficulty moving and blood to seep a little bit. He sniffed and pulled it out a little as he looked at the scattered money, some soaked in his blood, some crumpled up like unfinished ideas and some ripped to shreds. This money was worthless to him if he couldn't defeat the iron wave he'd see tomorrow. Feeling depressed, he pulled out a new cigar and lit it up. The dim bloody glow illuminated the room slightly and the Soldier stumbled out of the room, red drops following him.

A maniacal laughter was coming from the other side of the shed. It wouldn't stop, no matter how much time passed. Insanity was slow corrupting the tortured German. His crazy glance, his cruel smile, everything about his seem to be crooked and unnatural. Not surprising, considering he had been around the dead more than anyone else. Sometimes, he would lock himself up for days in his lab with the freshly brought corpses from the battlefield, giggling and whispering loudly to himself, coming out with a grin wider than before, his eyes focused into the distance, and blood staining his clothes from shoes to his chest. A terrifying sight to anyone else. The very same laughter resonated now, in the murky darkness of the shabby house. The Medic had a rusty saw in his hand which he was using to scratch words and phrases into the wall, creating an irritating noise petrifying to the ear. A bulk of steel-like muscle crashed into the old wooden doors, barely surprising the Medic from his eccentric form of entertainment. A cigar landed on the floor, bouncing once and rolling towards the doctor and the Soldier stumbled onto a nearby table, grasping it tightly with both hands to hold himself steady. The wood was beginning to cause severe pain. The Medic looked over at the cigar and than at the panting soldier. His smile disappeared with a angry frown.

"What the hell do you want?"

The Soldier threw a glance at the Medic, irritated that the Medic was either being stupid or purposefully annoying him by ignoring his wound. Nonetheless, pointing his finger at the the tattered part of his clothes, he grunted. The Medic ruthlessly threw his fist at the pointed location. A scream of agony rang throughout the house and through the rocks in the canyons outside. Slowly, the Medic lowered his fist and the Soldier grasped his side, yelling in total pain.

"Does it like I give _ein einziger_ fuck?"

Grimacing, the Soldier let out a moan-grunt and attempted to climb back up. A sharp kick was sent at the Soldier, letting out another shrill out. Tears now physically ran out of the man's eyes, mixing with the blood on the floor.

"Do you know what? You'd make a _fein_ body for my collection."

The deranged smile came out again on the German's face.

"N-n-no."

He stopped for a bit, as if intaking and analyzing what the Soldier just mumbled at him. Then, out of nowhere, he cackled wickedly. A thud sounded as he fell first on to his knees, and then on to his side, still letting out an evil laughter. The Soldier stared in trembling fear as the Medic slowly crawled to his bonesaw by the wall. Heavy steps sounded outside in the corridor, effectively turning the heads of both. Two worn rubber boots steps stepped inside, pointing a decrepit shotgun at the savage in white and red.

"Don't you fuckin' touch him."

The Engineer looked down, still pointing the shotgun at the Medic in the corner, who seemingly wanted to challenge it's authority, but was hesitant to do so. A gruesome sight of the Soldier, soaked in tears and blood, lying on the floor in a fetal position. Crouching, he shook the man's shoe.

"Get out of here. I'll help you."

For a split moment, it seemed like the room had finally calmed down, but those priceless seconds were interrupted by a raspy screech. Looking up, the Engineer saw the Medic charging at him with his saw. Time was critical, as death for moments away for the Engineer. With a precise movement, the Engineer sent the Medic flying unconscious to the floor by swiftly gutting him in the stomach with the butt of his shotgun. He lowered his shotgun and slumped his shoulders, looking at the slightly-twitching body of the Medic, appearing like a stereotypical tired hero in a movie. He breathed out deeply, tilting his attention towards his wounded companion.

"C'mon buddy, lemme help y'out."

"Are y-y-you one of them? Tell me, or I-I swear, I'll shoot you!"

Shivering in fear, the Sniper pointed his submachine gun at the Spy, who was throwing his hands around in the air, making childish faces at the Sniper.

"Are you going to kill me? The King of Tatters and Rags?"

The Spy hopped around, snorting from laughter while the Sniper fearfully pointed his gun at the bouncing lunatic. The Sniper was no longer the professional and content man he used to be. His filthy hair obscured his once-pristine vision and the nervous shakes were fumbling his aim beyond salvation. A mental breakdown occurred a while back ago when he had killed his teammate, the Pyro. Scared to death, he pointed his rifle at the charging maniac and pulled tightly on the trigger. Immediately he was covered in meaty chunks of brain, stained chips of what used to be a skull, and an unwashable wave of blood. He never forgave himself, constantly shaming himself and making him wonder if anyone else would ever try to kill him.

"M-m-aayyyte I swear on m'mum that I'll... I'll..."

The Spy stopped bouncing around and approached the wiggling body of the Sniper, smiling creepily at him.

"Do what, _garçon_? Kill the King?"

Clenching his teeth, the Sniper pulled back and attempted to make distance between the himself and the Spy. Unfortunely, he bumped into the wall which made him shriek like a girl. At that exact moment, two almost human men entered the room, one sulking on the other. Bullet rang out in the darkness, surprising everyone.

"Stop it! Stop it now!"

The Texan screamed at the Sniper to stop, but he didn't. Flashes lighted up the room ever so slightly - enough to show the terrified face of the Sniper as he fired forwards and up. With a profound thud, the Engineer dropped the Soldier and tackled the Sniper, fumbling his weapon and scaring the Australian senseless. A last sound was heard from the Sniper. It wasn't another bullet, though. Judging from the smell, the Engineer concluded the Sniper defecated from fright. He returned back to his friend and picked him up, angry at the Spy.

"Why the hell did ya do that for?"

The Spy did not reply, but instead started moving his body awkwardly, as if he was doing some strange dance. Confused, the engineer asked again, and still got no answer. The motions continued, intensifying and becoming more and more violent as time passed. Finally, the Engineer got tired of the silence and put the Soldier on a nearby bed. The shanty bed creaked like an opening coffin as the Soldier shifted into a comfortable position. The Engineer placed a chair beside him and examined the wound. It was getting infected at this point, so the pulled out the bottle of rum he took from the Demoman earlier. It was the only that could be done. Gently, he shook the resting giant.

"Hey buddy, drink some."

He reached out the bottle as the Soldier opened one eye slowly. Noticing it was the Demoman's bottle his gaze suddenly darker and more ferocious, but it calmed down. He grabbed it and started gulping away.

"Slow down - you don't want to pass out."

The warning didn't stop him from chugging just about everything inside and burping with violent pleasure. They both smiled - one from getting his giggling drunk high and the other from seeing his friend feel relaxed. However, there was a more important issue at hand. A wound needed to be treated and there might not be enough rum left. Examining the russet bottle, he determined that there was just enough to effectively clean out. With no hesistation, he poured the rest on the wound. Surprisingly, a very faint welp came from the Soldier. There weren't any bandages, so the engineer just wrapped a shaggy blanket tightly around his stomach. Z's flew out of the Soldier faster than bullets out of the Heavy's minigun.

Now that all was quiet, the attention turned to the freakish Spy. The poor fool stopped dancing and now was looking around like a curious infant. The Engineer wasn't angry though, because he understood that he was merely experiencing another wave of changes. The Spy had around 5 different personalities, which would change without warning and waiver chaos. His three most common personalities were: The King of Tatters and Rags, the little boy named James, and a pseudo-philosophical man called Pearce. Right now, he was experiencing the retreat back into his childhood.

"Are you my mummy?"

The Engineer looked at him and shook his head calmly, disappointed that the Spy went nuts.

"They took my marbles away."

Raising an eyebrow, he nodded. Someone did take his marbles away and he wasn't going to get them back.

It was a cold outside. Not freezing, but enough to give you a death of a cold. The Scout shivered,covering his bare, thin arms with his tiny hands. He rubbed them up and down, but it wasn't working. The shivers hadn't gone away since they started several months ago after he witnessed a trajedy occur in his base. He just stood there, looking up into the dark, cold sky. A blue dot spun around in the sky - maybe a comet, maybe a figure of his stalled imagination. Whatever it was, it brought him a slight relief. He managed to whisper the first word after several months of being mute.

"D-d-ho-o-vy."

"You alright, boy?"

The scout jumped slightly, but kept silent like a corpse. The Engineer frowned and looked at his shoes. He was really disappointed that the only true youth was robbed of his golden years and would never be the man he could be. The Scout could've been a model - he was damn handsome. He could've been an athlete - he had the determination. He could've done so much more, but no, he would never experience the beauty of life.

"Look, I just wanted to tell you..."

He looked up to see the Scout was tearing up a little.

"I wanted to tell you that you need to get ready. Tomorrow's the begin of the end."

The Scout turned around and walked away with no hesitation, no regret, only tears. The Engineer felt genuinely sympathetic for the Scout, but in times like these, sympathy would only drag the team into the ground. It was time to be authoritative to try to survive humanly temptations and feels to make it through the tough times. Alas, little did he know that the downfall was already beginning and no divine power could intervene to change. The Engineer looked up into the blackish pit above him one more time, turned around and went inside.

The next day dawned upon the men. The pale light shined through the cracks of the shed, providing a less-than-decent supply of light inside. One by one, all of the men exited and stood outside, yawning and gazing at the rising sun. Eventually, everyone came out and stood ready.

"Oi, what 'appened to the Snipah? He smells like shit!"

The rest of the group concurred by nodding their heads, except the Engineer. He looked dead at the horizon, waiting for something to happen. The rest of the team started to show similar behaviors of the previous night: maniacal laughter, drunk behavior, extreme paranoia, and so one so forth. Only the Engineer - the only thread between total anarchy and the team. Even though the hand of insanity didn't reach him, his soul wasn't incorruptible. Moments later, the downfall was visible in the distance, approaching at great speeds. Everyone's eyes widened and jaws dropped; even the Scout. Only the Engineer stood prepared.

"Nah, this ain't no bad dream," grouched the Engineer, pumping his shotgun. He looked around at everyone.

"Pony up, boys."

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
